


Meraki

by facade



Category: Football RPF, Portugal National Team - Fandom
Genre: 2014 FIFA World Cup, M/M, Portugal National Team, Portuguese Premeira Liga, S.C. Braga, UEFA European Under-21 Championship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6424783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(v.) to do something with soul, creativity, or love; to put something of yourself into your work</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meraki

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something like this for some time and I finally gave in to that desire; by something like this, I mean something Rafa centric with roots in Portugal. This first chapter is more of a character introduction as the chances of most of you knowing who Rafa Silva is happens to be quite low. 
> 
> If you were unaware (or blind) // I'm a massive Portugal NT supporter. If I had to choose club or country (may this never occur), I would take Portugal over RMA every day of the week; I also happen to be a supporter of S.C. Braga ((growing more avid with each passing moment as the love is a newish kind of love - since 2014 type new)) so now that you're fully aware of that you won't be as offended by my strong bias and snide remarks within this work.
> 
> While I'm speaking of them (and as the Primeira Liga receives so little love on here), both of my European clubs are in hella cray matches this week // Braga play Benfica in a few fucking hours (UPDATE: call the EMTs, we were murdered) and, in case you live under a rock, Madrid will be visiting the Camp Nou tomorrow and then both of them will be engaged in European Quarters (Braga in Europa and Madrid in UCL) only a few short days from now. I probably won't survive any of this.

The scoreboard reads as something of a loss, reads that two someones from somewhere have ruined his debut for his country and yet his soul is screaming for more than just seventeen minutes of this as the small audience screams for something of the same, demands more from them. The stadium is small, no larger than a high school stadium with bleachers of concrete filled only on one side and the pitch is just as small, serves as something of a multiplex as a track surrounds it and yet this, this is everything he could possibly want in life. He doesn’t care that everything about this is small; everything is nothing as the weight of the crest pressing against his still beating heart is larger than anything he could have ever imagined, is larger and these people are more inspiring than any of the words he’s ever heard uttered... It’s small and yet he can no longer envision himself without this small. He belongs here – in this kit of red and green with this crest embedded within it pressing against the flesh in guard of his heart – standing in front of these green and yellow, these red and black, these white and blue people chanting the name of his homeland, of their homeland. He’s a mere twenty years of age as he ingrains the images of an April evening friendly within his mind. It’s small, but it’s his...

He never forgets the country of Uzbequistão after that beautiful April night, never forgets the names of Yusupov and Makhstaliev even as he finds himself pitched with the duo for a full ninety in two days’ time, never forgets the lights or the smells of that evening even as he finds himself disappointed and without the call to the World Cup that very summer. A country still whispers the glory of his, of their home even as he dances within the small of the Estádio Marcolino de Castro, even as he dances for something much smaller than his country; it's no surprise that he finds himself longing for that crest once more, finds hemself soothed to sleep each night by those Tuga whispers from his memories. It's no surprise that he finds himself longing for more weight even as he dances with that of Feirense upon him; it’s no longer heavy enough to hold him here and he listens in earnest as Braga comes knocking with his name tumbling off of their lips, with Europa promises gleaming in their eyes, and it’s not long after that he finds himself found by Rui Jorge with their country in his hands and a Euro on his tongue.

Mother Mary grounds him only to sweep him away once more as he finds himself in the midst of The Quarry, finds it to be over four times larger than anything he’s ever fielded and Os Arsenalistas have a presence that surpasses anything he’s ever beheld. He loves the weight, the pressure, but he’s struggling to find his grip with it. ((“Relax, it’s just O Belém, not one of Os Três Grandes…”)) and he swallows the remnants of his vomit as he flushes the rest. It’s not Os Três Grandes but one day it will be ((“…but even if it was, every Arsenalista knows they’re tougher on paper than they ever could be on the pitch”)). He groans as he feels his stomach churn once more. Os Três Grandes: the words remind him that he’s here, that he’s fielding in the Primeira Liga. He’s here and here, here is much bigger. The pitch is much larger and so are the names, the pressure, the fixtures and he finds himself choking under the weight of it all. Seventy-four minutes and it’s gone… but he refuses to let it go completely. As much as he struggles to handle this, as much as he struggles he wants this.

He’s on the bench as they dance with Pandurii Targu-Jiu, as they dance and as they lose; he can’t sit idly by and yet he does, he refuses to bond with this damned bench and yet he’s chained to the role of spectator nonetheless as the whispers carrying Europa promises fade. He’s sinking into the soft of his sofa cushions as they fall away against Gil Vicente and he hates that he’s bound here, hates that ink hadn’t engraved his name within the line-up…

True to his word, Rui Jorge holds the key and frees him on a pitch for seventy-nine minutes with faces of Norway and, while O Estádio Cidade de Barcelo fills smaller than The Quarry, the crest is so much larger, the people as five answers to a single Norwegian question are found in his presence. Five answers, none his and yet he knows he belongs here – in this kit of red and green with this crest pulsed to life by his own still beating heart – pulling these strings.

He returns to Braga high on Portuguese victory and finds himself at a loss as he is quickly earthed by a ball and chain once more, name inked and bound to the bench. He soaks in the atmosphere and suddenly finds that he’s no longer crushed by it, finds The Quarry suddenly small despite Os Arsenalistas spilling from the stands but he smiles as his memory dwells in the wash of stadium lights on an April night. It’s small but it’s his. He watches with the intensity of a thousand suns as they find two answers to Estoril’s single question, watches as the strings are pulled and thinks of how he might manipulate them. It’s a close match and he finds the bench more uncomfortable than he has ever before with each minute that falls into the past. It is only after watching the death of seventy minutes that he finds his feet, finds his pitch…

…and so it goes until he finds himself hungry and staring at Sporting in the midst of The Quarry. He laughs with his teammates as they echo the words they have so often whispered from their humble standings within the tables ((“…every Arsenalista knows they’re greater on paper than they are on pitches. There are no paper pitches for them here”)) and so it shows as they find themselves level after twenty-seven fall. He finds the pitch beneath his boots at sixty-six and knows, feels that he’s meant to make giants like these crumble as he dances within and around them and yet Mother Mary shakes her head in something of disapproval. He’s meant to make giants such as these crumble, just not on the day as they find their end in Soares after eighty-six...

…and so it goes as the Madeirans seem to be too far gone by the time he comes on for Mauro in the sixty-ninth, and so it goes until Jorge turns savior once more and frees him from the label of sub for at least a moment. The crest is still heavy but his feet grow lighter as he dances with Israelis for ninety beautiful minutes under an auspicious three nothing score line to the rhythm of Portuguese pride and he swallows it whole as he stands in the small of the Estádio Municipal da Marinha Grande, thrives in the large of the Portuguese.

He’s in Baku when he realizes that he’s no longer dancing in dreams, when he realizes that Braga, that Sporting, that the Portuguese Primeira and that this, that the UEFA European Under-21 Championship is no longer confined to his dreams; this, all of this is real and all of this is happening, has happened within a conscious world. He’s in Baku when the crest truly swallows him and overwhelms him. He’s in Baku, having the time of his life dancing in the fifty-third when he finds the mesh of the net for his country for the first time, when that crest and his blood catch fire for the first time in the midst of his people. The goal is beautiful; the goal is a divine combination of work, frustration, and instinct; the goal is his. Bodies crowd around his own, fly over him and he knows that this, this is where he belongs.

He lives in those moments and they pull him through the losses, pull him through Academi, through the Rio Grande loss, until Rui calls upon him once more and he’s home with the crest falling heavy over his still beating heart, within it. Until he’s back to doing what his countrymen are best at within the U21s: winning. The pressure of the league cultivates into something easier to manage and the strings, the strings are becoming easier to manipulate as he begins to fall prey to chemistry and familiarity within Os Arcebispos. He dances in The Quarry with the freedom he had within Feirense as it now holds the warmth of his home and it has become nothing less, the weight of sixty thousand eyes fading into something less than a memory... He dances with the ball until there's no one left to dance around, dances until the eyes of Bento find him, until he's charging at the face of goal to left of Meireles, behind the famed Ronaldo and he knows he's found himself in a dream, finds confirmation in the words "exhibition" and yet he never wants to awake from this.. He belongs here.  

...but The Quarry lies in wait and a league remains to be spoken for and, as small as it now seems, it's his small. He awakens from the dream with the ball still glued to his boot and everything feels so much lighter than he remembers it being, almost too light in the midst of the Arsenalistas. The lights are too bright for April nights and the pitch is much too large and he finds himself smiling until the whistle sounds, dancing until the whistle sounds and sighing when it's done, though he knows not of where it went. Guarda feels only moments away from where he stands, that April night, Uzbequistão...

He’s leaving the pitch in a state of reverie and yet his boots feel heavy, keep him grounded as he's reminded of the loss found with the final whistle. His mind leaves Guarda as his crest, that too feels insufferable as Mother Mary presses her weight against his chest and yet he finds moderate reprieve in the knowledge that they’re not within The Quarry ...and yet he's disturbed once more as this, as Guimaraes had been their final match of the season, his last match until the new season as Rui Jorge hadn’t pressed his name in ink. He wants nothing more than to play at the side of his countrymen, had played his heart out to do so to no avail; he had checked his email twice, had called his agent, had called him six times, all with the same nothing result.

His full turns empty as he makes his way down the tunnel, bumping shoulders against those of his clubmates and yet he finds himself caught by both words and a hand as he turns to find the Cheshire cat grin of his agent lying in wait. ((“Haven’t you heard, my dear boy?”)) and the weight is all his, the burn as his heart sets itself ablaze.

Paulo Bento had come knocking on Braga’s door with their country in his hands, had pressed his name to ink in a final thirty with World Cup glory on the table without the fog of a dream. 


End file.
